


Stinker, Failure, Soldier, Spy

by AlexKingOfTheDamned, swimsalot



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blow Jobs, Comedy, Humor, M/M, Soldier is an idiot, Spy is a spook, Switching Classes, They are stupid and they are in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKingOfTheDamned/pseuds/AlexKingOfTheDamned, https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimsalot/pseuds/swimsalot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soldier wants to teach Spy how to be a Soldier.<br/>Spy wants to teach Soldier how to be a Spy. </p><p>They're both terrible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PEOPLE REALLY NEED TO SHIP SOLDIER/SPY OR I AM GOING TO DIE
> 
> This is me and my girlfriend's best attempt at getting other people to ship it.

Sometimes Spy even amazes himself. It's hard to do considering all he knows about his own ample skills and helpful equipment but there are times when he would stop and pat himself on the back for being so impressive. That is if he didn't have a job to do.

Now is one of those times. How can he not be proud of himself when he's the one BLU to make it this close to the RED’s base? He left the others in his dust, caught up in the mundanity of guns and bombs and other means of making each other as dead as possible. He'd managed to slip through the fray unnoticed and make it within sight of the RED base without so much as a tear in his suit.

 

He can see the entrance to the base where he knows the briefcase is being kept. The entry is clear though he has no doubt there's at least one sniper covering it from somewhere unseen. No matter. There's ample cover to be had until the last three or four yards and he's got his spytron to get him through there with no trouble. Another hour or so and he'll be back in BLU quarters complaining over today's miserable excuse for a dinner.

 

That's what he's thinking anyway, when the rocks on the ledge above him and shaken loose by a powerful explosion. He sees them coming and jumps to the side, certain he's clear of them until his leg is engulfed in agonizing pain.

 

Spy falls hard to the ground, barely managing to catch himself on his hands and avoid breaking his nose. He tries to stand, certain he's been seen only to fall again with a pained cry. Turning he sees that his leg, in addition to being at least broken, is trapped between two of the large rocks he'd thought he'd jumped free from.

 

"Oh, merde!" he mutters, trying to turn over and sit up to shift the rocks. The movement sends another shock of pain through his leg. There's no way he can move and trying to shift the rocks from this position is impossible.

 

Frantically he pulls his spytron out of his pocket and turns it on, rendering himself invisible. This close to the enemy base he has no choice but to try to stay hidden until an ally comes to save him.

 

As it turns out, he’s a better spy than he thought, because he really is the only BLU this close to the base. He uses his spytron sparingly because a fair share of REDs pour in and out of the entrance, but there isn’t a BLU in sight.

 

He tries to move the rocks again, only to collapse a different part of the pile and he causes a small land slide over his back. He cries out, but he’s lucky none of the rocks that fell were big enough to seriously hurt him. He has to cloak invisible in the next second to avoid being seen by a RED heavy, and has to leave the rocks digging painfully into his spine. The second he’s clear, he shoves them off his body with a curse.

 

He wiggles his cigarette case free of his trouser pocket. If he can disguise as a RED, maybe one will help him out and might even get him to a medic before he sneaks out. But, just his luck, when he opens the slightly bent case, the screen is cracked quite neatly in half. His spytron is useless if he can’t tell it which cloak to use with the remote device, so all he can do is use the button on the watch itself to turn himself invisible whenever necessary.

 

Forehead hot, he lays it down on the concrete under him with a loud groan. Why he ever agreed to be moved to the base in Colorado he’ll never know.

 

“The trees will be a nice scenery change, they said!” he complains. “The fresh air will do you good, they said!”

 

An hour passes with still no sign of anyone in BLU. More than three dozen reds of various ranks have come and gone but Spy has yet to see anyone in a blue uniform pass this way.

 

"Maybe they all forgot about ze briefcase," he muses to himself. "Per’aps they all fell and hit zeir ‘eads and woke up even stupider zan usual. ‘As no one noticed I'm missing?" he wonders.

 

"Do they think maybe I stopped and decided to ‘ave dinner with ze Red spy?" he complains, propping himself up on his elbows. He looks in his cigarette case but finds only one cigarette left. Best to save it for later, he might need it for warmth if no one finds him before night fall.

 

"Zis was my third best suit too. And now it's filthy if it isn't torn to shreds." he glances back at his throbbing leg and sees a tear up to his knee. "Just as I suspected. I better be reimbursed for zis. I agreed to risk my _life_ for zis war, not my wardrobe."

 

He’s resorted to gently thudding his head against the concrete out of boredom – and to give him something to focus on other than the burning ache in his leg – when he hears a familiar voice.

 

Well. A familiar shout.

 

“Ha! Take _that_ , maggots!”

 

His head snaps up. There can’t possibly be two people in the world with a voice like that. He twists and tries to look in the direction of the voice, but even if the rocks weren’t obscuring his vision, his leg prevented him from doing much twisting.

 

“Soldier!” he calls out, but his voice is swallowed up by an explosion from the American’s rocket launcher. He shields his eyes from a spray of dust, and realizes that it must mean the soldier is very close.

 

The next time he opens his eyes, he sees the soldier’s gunboats run right by. He calls out to him again, thickly this time from the dust that collected heavy on his tongue, but he’s out of sight in an instant, running right into the RED base shouting “charge!” even though nobody was actually following him. Spy curses and lays his face down again.

 

But then he hears noisy bootfalls, the soldier’s metal reinforced boots clanking loudly on the concrete and he lifts his head to see the man lifting his helmet and peering back around the corner of the corridor he’d just disappeared down. He must have heard him just in time.

 

“Spy! What in God’s name are you doing down there?” the soldier calls, hoisting his heavy rocket launcher up onto his shoulder and putting his free fist on his hip. “This is a war, we don’t have any time to take naps!”

 

"I am not 'ere by choice! I am trapped beneath zese cursed rocks!" Spy shouts back. "I was almost to ze base when a bomb went off and zey fell on me and broke my leg."

 

The soldier approaches and looks up at the ledge over the wide open arch that leads into the RED base. There’s a large chunk of rock missing, that much he can see. He looks down at the trapped spy and hums.

 

“You’re still laying down on the job. Pull your leg out of there and walk it off while I do the job _you’re_ supposed to do!”

 

The spy stares. “Walk off a broken leg?”

 

“You heard me, private! Get moving!”

 

"Per'aps you do not understand what 'trapped' means. I am stuck. Caught, so to speak. I am pinned by a rocky cage. I am unable to remove myself," Spy snaps. "If I could get up and walk it off, believe me my dear soldier, I would."

 

The broad end of the soldier’s rocket launcher crunches against the dust on the concrete as he peers over the pile of rocks with a hum.

 

“Oh.” He says definitively. “Alright, hold still.”

 

“Thank goodness, are you going to – wait, what are you doing?” the spy splutters when the soldier picks up his rocket launcher and aims it at the pile of rocks.

 

“I’m gonna free you,” the soldier says as though it’s obvious, and loads a rocket into the barrel of the launcher.

 

"If you launch zat rocket I will kill you." Spy hisses. "I am not losing my leg because you are overzealous wiz your pyrotechnics."

 

“You’ll have to catch me first ya sorry one-legged bastard!” soldier exclaims proudly while he lines up his shot.

 

Spy growls "I will never come near you again. We will never speak, not even to ask you to pass ze salt at dinner. If I so much as glance at you it will be wiz nozing but contempt if you dare launch zat rocket."

 

He ducks his head when the rocket fires and holds his breath. He cries out as pain spirals up his leg into his spine, but when he flexes his toes, he finds them still attached. He whips his head around to see the rocks have been blasted right off his body. His mouth drops open.

 

“I think I know a little bit more about rocket physics than you do, buddy!” the soldier says triumphantly, nudging the spy’s head with the toe of his boot to get his attention.

 

"If you had been off by so much as a centimeter you could have cost me a leg if not my life!" Spy shouts, pushing himself up. His rage is enough to numb the pain in his leg until he is on his feet.

 

Once he's standing the pain returns with a vengeance and he finds himself crumbling to the ground with a shout. His leg is definitely broken, a compound fraction he's betting. It's going to be hell until they get him back to the medic.

 

"Why are you still standing zere?" He demands, glaring up at the soldier. "Go get ze case. I will be waiting when you get back."

 

The soldier salutes him before hoisting his gun up onto his shoulder. “Stay put,” he orders, as though Spy were really capable of getting up to leave. He trots off like a bull, and spy can hear him shouting and shooting at REDs deep into the base.

 

He drags himself to cover, his leg stinging the whole way. His spytron is really getting a workout today as he utilizes it to stay hidden from other REDs running out of the base to warn those out in the field that their case is being threatened.

 

By the time the soldier comes walking victoriously out of the base, he’s covered in so much blood he might be mistaken for a RED himself. He looks around for any sign of the spy before the shimmer of a cloak dropping gives him away, hidden under the low boughs of a pine tree.

 

“Still laying down on the job, I see!” he jeers at the Frenchman, reaching under the tree to grab him under the armpits and drag him out into the open so he can get a better hold on him.

 

"Ow, ow! Put me down you brute!" Spy yells until the Soldier stops and sets him down. He opens his mouth to prepare a new angry lecture on how to treat an injured comrade when he's suddenly hoisted into the soldier's strong arms like a blushing bride being carried across the threshold.

 

"If you ever mention zis to anyone," Spy hisses, teeth clenched against the pain. "I will not only deny it but I will make public several very embarrassing photos of you from your child'ood."

 

“I don’t have embarrassing childhood photos,” the soldier declares, one arm curled under the spy’s bottom to avoid holding his injured leg, the other cupped around his shoulders to keep him from sliding out of his arms. Spy’s hold tightens around the soldier’s neck to keep upright and he turns his head away to hide his red face. Carried like a child, how embarrassing.

 

The soldier jogs quickly across the field, making a beeline to the base while dodging the majority of the fighting. Most people don’t look at him twice because they see him carrying an injured comrade, and they don’t even notice the case strapped to his back right under his rocket launcher.

 

Spy wouldn’t ever admit that he was impressed. He himself weighed more than 150 pounds, and he knows how heavy those blasted cases can be, and the soldier’s gun alone weighs almost 70 pounds, and he’s trotting like he does it every day. Of course, the bull-headed buffoon probably does.

 

“You know, private, this wouldn’t happen if you would carry a real weapon to protect yourself!” soldier says, jarring the spy out of his thoughts.

 

"A real weapon to use against falling rocks?" Spy challenges. "If you baboons knew 'ow to aim your guns zis sort of zing wouldn't happen."

 

He shifts a little to curl closer to Soldier's broad chest to shield himself from debris from the fighting. He would never admit it but he felt safe in the soldier's arms, safer than he had in a long time, despite his injury.

 

"Besides," he adds, "Large guns are not meant for stealth."

 

“Ah, stealth schmealth!” the soldier barks. “I’ve never been stealthy a day in my life, and I still have both legs! You need a real gun, your pea shooter isn’t good for jack shit!”

 

"My 'pea shooter' ‘as saved my life _and_ yours on multiple occasions. If it weren't for ze land slide I would have had ze case and been back hours ago. Zanks to stealth." Spy says proudly.

 

“Thanks to stealth nothing, bum leg!” the soldier shouts as he jumps off a ledge and takes the impact in his hips to avoid a rocket shot at them from several yards away. He crowds spy into the ledge they just jumped off to protect him from a few falling scattered rocks that bounce harmlessly off the soldier’s helmet and broad shoulders, and then he’s off again at a jaunty gait. “You need at _least_ a shot gun!” he continues. “Something with real substance! Getting shot with your sissy gun feels like getting stung by a bee!”

 

Spy laughs. "You can only say zat because I 'ave not used it to kill you. It is perfectly functional zough I do prefer my knife. It is much better for sneaking about, instead of loud boorish weapons zat announce your presence to the 'ole world."

 

“Sneaking broke your leg and my loud boar weapon got me the case, so who is the real winner here, son?” soldier says as he slows from a jog to a brisk walk as they make it through the front entrance of the BLU base.

 

"Shut up. It was ze rocks zat broke my leg. Ze rocks zat fell because of rockets like yours. Maybe it was one of yours. Maybe zis is all your fault!" Spy accuses. "'ave you considered zat? No weapon could 'ave 'elped me out zere unless you want me to start carrying a crowbar or something I could have used to lever ze rocks off me. Now 'urry up. I want to get zis leg fixed now!"

 

“If you carried a gun like mine you could have rocket jumped your sorry butt out of there!” soldier walks a little more quickly, turning a corner to avoid a small battalion of RED scouts that go scurrying by without noticing them. “But no, you’ve got a butter knife and a BB gun!”

 

Spy sighs heavily, knowing Soldier will never let this argument end. "I will make you a deal. I will let you teach me how to use a real gun and I will see if I want one wiz me in battle."

 

The soldier stops so abruptly that spy’s leg wrenches and shoots a terrible pain up his spine. “Are you serious?” he asks, ignoring the spy’s shouts of pain.

 

"You beast be careful!" Spy shouts, eyes clenched tight in pain. "Why I ever let you touch me I do not know. I must 'ave been beyond reason from ze pain."

 

He takes a few breaths as the pain wears down and then slowly opens his eyes. "Yes I am serious. But I 'ave a condition. You will teach me about real guns and I will teach you to be stealthy."

 

“Now wait just a moment, son!”

 

“Do we ‘ave a deal?”

 

The soldier hums and grumbles and groans as they continue on their way to the medical bay. On the one hand, he could finally knock some sense into the namby-pamby spy! Teach him what it means to use a real weapon! Maybe pack some muscle onto his toothpicks-and-glue body! But on the other hand, he’d have to sneak around like a snake and shank people with a glorified sharp stick.

 

“Mmmh, alright,” he finally grumbles as they reach the bay. “But only if I get to go first!”


	2. Chapter 2

Spy doesn't know why he let Soldier talk him into this. He must have been delirious from the pain of the having his leg broken in three different places. There's no other way he would have agreed to this.

 

Really if it was as simple as just shooting one of Soldier's guns and being done with it then he might not have a problem. But Soldier is making him learn the names of every part of the gun before he's even allowed to touch it. Then he needs to be able to disassemble and reassemble it by memory and clean it before attempting to lift the damn thing.

 

And it's huge. It looks big in Soldier's arms but up close it's at least twice what it looks like when it's carried by someone with so much confidence in the weapon. Spy isn't exactly weak or out of shape but he doubts he'll be able to hold the damn thing for long enough to make more than one shot, much less run the obstacle course Soldier has set up for him.

 

“It’s an extension of your body!” the soldier coaches him from the side lines. “Move _with_ it, not under it! Come on man, it’s a gun not a snake!”

 

“It’s heavy!” the spy snarls as the gun swings so violently it almost takes him off his feet.

 

“You know what’s heavy, you are! You weigh a heck of a lot more than that gun does, private, but you don’t complain about moving your own feet now do you! Slide it up farther on your shoulder, balance it, if it moves too far forward or back it’s gonna take you with it!”

 

“Stop yelling at me!” the spy complains as he hauls himself over a barrier and falls flat under the weight of the gun.

 

The soldier grumbles and vaults over the fence to march right up to the spy, and hauls him to his feet, picking the gun up with one hand.

 

“It’s not your enemy,” he says, shoving the weapon into the spy’s arms. “Stop treating it like it’s out to get you. You have to work _with_ the gun. You and the gun are on the same side, for crying out loud! The gun doesn’t hold a grudge on you, the gun doesn’t care about your political beliefs or your silly accent, the gun just wants to _help_ you! So for pete’s sake work with it!”

 

"I am not trained for zis kind of activity!" Spy shouts back. The gun lands too heavily in his arms and he almost falls over. "I am not meant for carrying heavy weapons. My body is not built for it! I am not a pack horse!"

 

“Hold it with your hips, not your arms,” the soldier commands. “If I held it like you are I wouldn’t be able to hit a damn thing.”

 

“My ‘ips don’t ‘ave fingers!” the spy hisses.

 

“That’s not what I mean! Hold still.” Soldier steps behind the smaller man and whacks him on the shoulder when he complains and squirms. “Shoulders forward, like this,” he instructs, and pushes on the spy’s shoulders until they tilt forward. “Hips back, legs apart, feet planted.” As he speaks, he physically moves the spy’s body like a puppet, nudging his thighs farther apart or his feet tilted out. “There, now you’re holding it right! You don’t hold it like a fishing pole for god’s sake!”

 

With his body the way Soldier positioned it Spy begins to understand what he means about proper stance. With the weight of the gun held in his legs and hips rather than straining his arms he can move the gun to aim it with ease. The gun almost feels natural in this position, cradled against his body and completely within his control.

 

Maybe he hadn't given soldier enough credit. There is a certain art to being able to wield such a weapon. Not as fine an art as his knife of course but that is like comparing The Scream to the Mona Lisa. They are simply too different to even know where to begin.

 

The gun isn’t loaded, because the point of this wasn’t to teach him how to shoot, he was just meant to run with the gun. He has an easier time of it with his body positioned lower, but he’s still not about to switch classes. At least he doesn’t fall over again.

 

It’s when the soldier tells him it’s time for him to move onto shooting that he gets uneasy. Soldier takes him up onto a ledge and set up a dummy down on the field.

 

“Now you know how to hold it, and how to run with it. I wanna see you shoot it,” the soldier says, hands on his hips, and points to the dummy several dozen feet away, a story down to the ground. “Try to aim for that little runt down there. Pretend he stole your ski mask! You got a bone to pick with that guy!”

 

"I 'ave told you a 'undred times! It is not a ski mask!" Spy shouts. It's an argument they've had a dozen times, in public and private. It never fails to make his blood boil.

 

Which is probably why Soldier is bringing it up now. To get him angry and prepared to shoot the huge gun that still feels so out of place in his hands.

 

He takes careful aim at the dummy, taking longer than is probably necessary but he wants to be just right. He's finally satisfied and he fires.

 

The first thing he thinks is maybe it backfired. Because one minute he's aiming the gun and the next he's off his feet, flying back through the air before landing hard on his ass.

 

A spike of pain shoots up his back from his pelvis and he topples over onto his back like an infant with a shout of surprise. Distantly he hears an explosion and the sound of dirt raining down to the ground.

 

“Hey, that was a good shot!”

 

“Really?” he sits up in a hurry, his body still aching. He sees the dummy still completely intact, and a crater from his rocket about twelve feet away.

 

“Yeah, _the ground_ really didn’t see _that_ one coming!”

 

Spy grimaces at him. "You did not mention the recoil was so strong. You should 'ave told me to brace myself before I shot!"

 

He drops the gun on the ground and pulls himself up onto his feet, brushing off his suit as he goes.

 

"You wanted to see me fall! You zink zis is a game don't you? You just wanted a reason to laugh at me. Well we will see who is laughing in the end!" He says, getting closer to the Soldier until he's right in his face. "I will master zis gun zen I will make you wish you never agreed to zis deal when I start my training."

 

Spy can’t master the gun.

 

He tries for three days. He lands on his backside every single time he shoots a rocket, and the only time he ever hits his target is when his rockets go close enough that the dummy is caught in the debris.

 

The soldier, however, really seems to admire his gumption. He praises him for not giving up, “I expected you would have quit after the first hour! I knew you’re not a quitter!” and as much as it makes spy angry, he can’t help but quietly admit to himself that the constant affirmation is probably what keeps him going. That, and the fact that he knows the moment he does give up, the soldier will really dig into him.

 

His hips are bruised and he has to sit under the healing beam of the doctor’s medigun more than once for a pulled muscle and his fingers ache, but hey, he sleeps like a log for it.

 

After five days of bruised bones, flesh and ego Spy admits that yes, alright he hasn't been giving Soldier enough credit. The rocket launcher is not as easy as choosing a random direction and firing, hoping it will hit something. It requires time and training and a skill set that Spy just does not have.

 

At the end of the fifth day, he hands over the gun as he has every other day but rather than turning and immediately seeking medical attention he grabs the Soldier's arm to keep him there for a moment longer.

 

"I was... wrong." the words are almost painful to say but he's a big enough man to admit defeat when he knows a cause is hopeless. "'I 'ave a new found respect for your work. I never realized zat brutish and uncivilized as it is, zere is a certain talent and almost grace to what you do. It is like comparing river dance to a waltz but both are dances and zey both take skill. I will remember zat in ze future when I begin to zink what you do is so simple. It is hard enough zat I have no hope of mastering it."

 

The soldier doesn’t know what to say. He stands completely still as the words sink in, past helmet and skull and rattle around in his head. Is the spy actually complimenting him, because that doesn’t seem right. Spy never compliments anyone, least of all the soldier – the target of his verbal aggression for as long as they’ve known one another.

 

His cheeks turn a little red, and then redder, and then his ears light up. Spy is definitely complimenting him. He tips his helmet down farther over his face and scowls. “Don’t call it dancing!” he shouts feebly.

 

Spy grins and laughs. He never realized just how cute Soldier could be when he was embarrassed. It's almost endearing, seeing him so flustered.

 

"Life is a dance. Some of us just know ze steps better than ozers." he teases. "But I can not dance wiz my 'ips in zis state. Let's go back to base so I can lie down."

 

“Want me to carry you?” soldier offers with a grin, elbowing the spy in the ribs as they start to walk home.

 

“Careful, or I’ll take you up on zat,” the spy straightens his jacket with a forced serious expression. Tired and cranky and hungry and achy as he is, despite the fact he failed, he feels a sense of calm. It’s humbling, knowing there are just some things you can’t do. Not that he’ll ever actually admit that out loud. He shoves the soldier’s shoulder in retaliation to the jab in his ribs and even though the bigger man doesn’t budge an inch, he does shout ‘man down!’ and grips his shoulder like he’s been shot.

 

It’s not like they’re friends or anything. But maybe the soldier isn’t quite as bad as spy thought.


	3. Chapter 3

“Ahh, I’m not so sure about this anymore.”

 

“We made a deal! I zought you were a man of ‘onor?”

 

“I am!”

 

“Zen ‘onor our deal!”

 

The soldier makes a disgruntled noise as he looks down at the spytron watch on his wrist. It feels too tight and digs into the base of his thumb when he tries to turn his hand. The equipment looks average and unobtrusive on the spy’s wrist, but on the soldier’s, it looks like a child’s watch, narrow and dainty.

 

He flexes his hand into a fist several times and grumbles like a confused dog. He shoves his helmet up higher on his forehead so he can see the device. “Are you sure this dang thing is gonna work?” he demands, eyeing the button on the side of the device that boasts the ability to bend light waves and turn him invisible.

 

"If you do not smash it wiz your big meaty fingers, yes. It will work." Spy says with a sigh. He crosses his arms over his chest and gives Soldier a challenging stare. "If you do not zink you can 'andle it you can admit defeat now."

 

He smiles under his mask as Soldier's face turns red with anger. He's got him now. There's no way he's going to give up so quickly, not when Spy lasted five whole days.

 

"A true soldier never admits defeat!" Soldier yells.

 

"Good. Zen zis should be fun." Spy laughs. "Remember, be delicate wiz it. It is not a toy, it is expensive equipment. You break it you 'ave to explain why I need a new one. Understand?"

 

The soldier isn’t exactly built for finesse, but he pushes the button as lightly as possible. So lightly, in fact, that it doesn’t even click in all the way.

 

“Your junk doesn’t work!”

 

“Push a _little_ ‘arder zan zat,” the spy puts his hands on his hips.

 

Soldier tries again, and this time, it clicks. The device whirs to life and within seconds, soldier is cloaked. He cries out when his hands disappear and his feet vanish, and when he looks down, he can’t see any of himself.

 

“Jesus bullriding Christ!” he shouts. “How do I turn it off?!”

"You 'it ze button again." Spy rolls his eyes. He holds out his hand. "Give me your wrist I will do it. It is not zat hard. Mon Dieu zis is not even ze hard part. We 'ave not even gotten to true stealth yet."

 

The soldier pats his body all over to make sure everything is where it should be, and lets out a loud sigh of relief.

 

“That was awful! How do you even get around if you can’t see where your own feet are going?” he shakes his hands out like he’s trying to get something off them.

 

"I 'ave evolved to not need to watch my feet when I walk." Spy laughs. He approaches where Soldier had been a few seconds before and where he can see the faint shimmer of the field around him.

 

He finds the soldier's arms and trails his hand down it until he finds his wrist. He clicks the button and in a fraction of a second Soldier seems to rematerialize in front of him. Much, much closer than he had considered when he approached.

 

"Zere. See?" he says, taking a hasty step back. "It is easy. You will need to get used to moving without being able to see yourself. We will start small. Come with me, zere is an empty path we can use to practice straight lines."

 

“I don’t think I like this whole invisibility nonsense,” the soldier complains as the spy puts him in position in the hallway. “Why can’t you just dress up like a ninja? Nobody ever sees ninjas!”

 

"Because ninjas are not invisible. And if no one saw them how would anyone know they existed?" Spy says. He gets Soldier set up at one end of the hall and steps back. "'Hit ze button and see if you can make it to ze ozer end of ze hall wiz out 'itting ze wall."

 

The soldier doesn’t make it. He hits the wall twice, and trips over his feet once. He curses up a bluestreak and when a scout wanders in his way, he trips the poor boy flat on his face.

 

“This is stupid!” soldier decides when he finally reaches the end of the hall, rubbing the place his elbow smacked into the concrete wall. “What good are spies anyway, this is ridiculous! We don’t even need spies, let’s just get rid of the whole class!”

 

Spy glares at him from his spot at the other end of the hall, leaning lazily against the wall.

 

"Shall I go start packing my bags?" he snaps. "Just because you can not do it does not mean it is a useless skill. I 'ave used stealth to free prisoners and save lives a 'undred times over. You are included on zat list if you remember."

 

Soldier scoffs and continues to rub his elbow. “You didn’t save me. I just let you help aid in my escape!”

 

After the soldier proves that he can walk down a hallway without bumping into things – which takes a lot longer than it honestly should have – they move outside, and it’s like the soldier forgot everything he did indoors. He runs into trees and rocks and falls off the sides of turret ledges. He’s the loudest invisible person Spy has ever not seen, shouting and cursing the whole exercise.

 

“This is impossible! You’re just not human!” soldier shouts after his fourth consecutive tumble off of a metal walkway. “There’s no way any normal human being could figure out this tom foolery!”

 

"You 'ave to stop looking down! You 'ave to look in front of you!" Spy says, throwing his arms up in exasperation. "It's like you're wearing a blin-"

 

He stops and almost smacks himself. It's so obvious! How could he have missed it!

 

"Your ‘elmet! It's your ‘elmet. Take it off."

 

“Take off my helmet?! Now you’re talking crazy! If I take my helmet off what’s to stop me from getting a serious head injury, absolutely nothing that’s what!” the soldier dusts himself off as the cloak fizzles out after his drop. “I bet this is all some clever ruse that you thought up just to get your hands on my helmet!”

 

"I do not want your ugly 'elmet." Spy spits. "You can 'old onto it if your want. But zere is no way you are going to make it with zat on your 'ead. You can't see where you're going!"

 

“I can’t see where I’m going because I can’t see my feet!” Soldier accuses, “And that doesn’t have anything to do with my helmet!”

 

"If you take off your 'elmet you can see what is in front of you. You bumbling buffalo of a man." Spy snaps, growing more aggravated by the second. "'Ow ze 'ell do you aim your gun if you are always looking at your feet?"

 

Soldier doesn’t seem to want to answer that question because he sticks his hands up to request help getting back up onto the walkway. He grumbles to himself about pride and other nonsense, but the spy doesn’t listen.

 

Spy has to admit, what the soldier lacks in common sense, self control and intelligence, he makes up for in abundance with grit, determination, and good old-fashioned denial. He refuses to believe that he is at fault for the hearty log of failures over the hours, instead creating quite the list of everything else that is at fault. The wind, his boots, the metal is too slippery, the sun shined off it into his eyes, etc.

 

If the spy had struggled as much as soldier is, he doesn’t know he’d last the whole two days it takes before the man can finally walk in a straight line. He doesn’t shuck his helmet until almost 24 hours after the spy suggested it, giving him ample time to pretend he came up with the idea himself.

 

Once the helmet comes off he does a lot better in an instant, but he still refuses to admit it has anything to do with the helmet. He could see fine before, thank you.

 

“Why can’t I have the real knife?” soldier asks with a frown as he flips over the retractable rubber decoy knife that the spy carries, presumably so that if someone tries to knick it, they’ll get the fake.

 

“Because I don’t want to actually get stabbed,” the spy explains for the tenth time.

 

“You think I’ll be that good with it?” the soldier grins.

 

“No, I don’t. But I do know you ‘ave ze tendency to tackle,” spy scowls at the way soldier begins to play with the knife, stabbing the back of his own hand to watch the blade retract into the handle.

 

“So all I have to do is sneak up on you, right?” soldier grins and plays with the latch that holds the double handle of the fake balisong closed.

 

"Yes. But you won't." Spy says with a smile that makes Soldier's blood boil.

 

Spy sets himself up by the window of an empty observation room. There's three doors leading into the room, one from the stairs, one from the hall and one from outside. Soldier gets to choose which direction he comes in from and how he approaches Spy. The objective is simple. He has to come in and stab Spy in the back, preferably in under five minutes.

 

He can't do it. For over three hours they try and Spy always manages to catch him before he even makes it to the door. He breathes too loudly, his footfalls are too heavy, he scrapes against the wall on his way up the stairs. Even if that wasn't enough to give him away the smell of his aftershave would be enough to warn Spy at least twenty feet before he crosses the threshold.

 

“You’re cheating!” soldier decides. “It’s because you know I’m coming! If you didn’t know I was coming I’d have a better chance!”

 

Spy tries to explain that knowing soldier is coming doesn’t make him a cheater, because he’s the one who set up the exercise. His words fall on deaf ears and louder accusations of “cheater!”

 

That’s when Soldier gets a spare spytron and they set their exercise loose on the whole of the BLU base. Which, as it turns out, just gives soldier more ground to fail on.


	4. Chapter 4

Soldier tries to sneak up on Spy in the mess hall, when there are dozens of other people around and making noise. He gets within twenty feet before he’s caught by the spy. Closer than he’s ever gotten, but no cigar. Imagine the surprise of the others when a cloak shimmers and drops in the cafeteria and they see an irate soldier standing there.

 

Beginner’s luck, it seems, because after that, he doesn’t get nearly as close. He tries to sneak up on him in the showers when the water should drown out the sound of him approaching, but the spy can hear his metal-enforced gunboats on the tile from a mile away.

 

He tries to sneak up on him on the field, which was just a bad idea, because he got stabbed in the chest for it, and had to sit in medical for an hour while Doctor Clifford patched him up with the medigun and complained about how often he’s seen him and the spy in his theatre the last few days.

 

He tried to sneak up on him while he slept, but he didn’t even get all the way up to the door before spy crabbily shouted at him to go away, and reprised the rules the next day that he could only try to sneak up on him during the day.

 

Spy starts getting complaints from almost everyone on base. Not everyone is as observant as he is and they find themselves tripping over soldier all day, especially whenever they're anywhere near Spy, even if they just passed him in the hallways. Soldier isn't used to having to dodge out of people's way, leading to a lot of awkward encounters.

 

Spy doesn't tell Soldier about the complaints though. Honestly he finds it pretty amusing. Soldier's persistence is respectable and, damn it all, endearing. And Spy has to admit that he's enjoying watching the other man make a fool of himself.

 

The day that soldier finally wises up and takes his boot off is the day he gets so close that the spy is almost nervous. He catches the soldier’s wrist as it comes down, and the cloak drops at the contact. The blade of the fake knife is less than inches away from his shoulder.

 

“Dammit,” soldier screws his mouth up. “Got real close that time.”

 

"I'd be impressed if I 'adn't éard you two minutes ago. I just wanted to finish my cigarette before I ruined your fun." Spy lies. He schools his expression, what little of it can be seen, to keep from giving away just how surprised and almost scared he is.

 

He hadn't heard Soldier. Maybe it was just because he was too distracted or it could have been because he was waiting for the familiar sound of boots that never came and hadn't been paying enough attention to other factors but somehow he'd missed it. He'd missed it completely and if they were enemies there's a good chance he'd be dead by now. But Soldier doesn't need to know that.

 

"Just face it. You do not 'ave what it takes to be a spy. Not even close. And you never will." he says, dropping Soldier's arm.

 

“Hey! I got close!” the soldier barks. “Closer than you got!”

 

“Close does not count,” the spy seethes, dropping the butt of his cigarette and squishing it out with his shoe. “You are a miserable excuse for a spy. You would not have made it through basic training.”

 

To his surprise, he’s suddenly slammed back against the wall. He suddenly regrets choosing a vacant sniper nest to take a cigarette break in. It was secluded and gave him a good view of the Colorado forests outside the window, but it was regrettably very far away from everyone else. The breath is knocked out of him, and it looks like he was right again about the soldier’s tendency to tackle. One broad forearm pressed across his collarbone and the other holding his right wrist behind his back.

 

“I’m not giving up yet, private,” the soldier growls, his voice dropping lower in volume than the spy has ever heard it. It almost doesn’t sound like his voice. “I don’t back down from a challenge.”

 

"Zen you are even dumber zan you look," Spy sneers. He doesn't try to fight back knowing that will only make Soldier press tighter again his throat or twist his arm further. But he can't resist the cruel jab at Soldier's intelligence. It's a weakness of his, always needing to have the last word.

 

The soldier doesn’t seem perturbed by the jab at his intelligence. Either because he already knows, or because he doesn’t care. He pulls spy’s arm a little tighter behind his body, bowing his back to escape the pressure so far that their chests touch and he feels dwarfed by the angry hunk of muscle looming over him.

 

“If you think I’m going to stand here and take your insults, you are wrong!” soldier’s voice escalates in volume a little, getting closer to sounding like his good old self. “I have had it up to here with your piss-poor teaching!”

 

Soldier's body is like a furnace. Spy can feel the feet the heat coming off him, burning where their chests press together. Or maybe that's his own reaction to being so close to the loud boar of a man. He tries to pull away and Soldier just tugs on his arm again, making him bend back further and press even more against the much larger man.

 

"I might be a better teacher if I 'ad a student you who could walk two steps without tripping over 'is own feet! Per'aps if you were at all competent we would not 'ave zis problem!" he snaps back, forcing himself to look at the intimidating man. Their faces are inches apart and he can feel Soldier's breath on his skin. He's not breathing any harder than usual, no laboring breaths trying to slow the racing of his heart like Spy's would be if he would allow it.

 

“I might’ve had a rocky start but I’ve improved!” soldier barks. He doesn’t seem to notice how tightly their bodies are pressed together. “Your bad attitude is doing nothing to help!”

 

“I think – ” spy cuts off with a shout when his body is whipped around and crushed into the wall, his arm still twisted behind his back. Soldier’s body is so close, but he leaves just enough space between their forms, barely an inch. Close enough that spy can feel the tension, he can feel the electricity crackle in the space between their bodies. It raises goosebumps on his legs and he clenches his fist.

 

“Believe me, buster, I know what you think,” the soldier growls, his free hand coming down palm-first on the wall directly beside the spy’s turned head. His shoulders eclipse almost the whole room from the spy’s point of view. “But it doesn’t matter, because I’m not giving up! You can take what you think and shove it down your throat because I am not gonna give up until I’ve got this thing!”

 

Spy didn't know what to say. There was nothing he could say or do except try to put as much distance between himself and the Soldier as possible. A feat of growing importance thanks to his increasingly embarrassing condition.

 

There's something about Soldier that surprised Spy, in the best way. He knew the man was strong, that was obvious from seeing him out on the field. But having that strength directed at him with all of Soldier's unbridled passion is more exciting than Spy ever thought it would be. The additional manhandling had done a number on him too leaving him painfully aroused and the evidence tenting his suit pants.

 

Soldier hasn't noticed yet which is lucky. But if he were to shift even a fraction of an inch closer, the spy’s hips would grind against the wall and he’d be helpless to stop the sounds already trying to leach out of his throat. There's no way soldier could miss it and Spy has no doubt that he'll kill him for it.

 

"Fine. Zen we can keep practicing. Just let me go." Spy demands, too proud even in his shame to beg.

 

Surprised that the spy acquiesced so easily, the soldier has no real choice but to let him go. He’s too proud to fight people who don’t fight back. He mutters something about ‘look out for me next time, I’m doubling my efforts’ but spy doesn’t really hear him. He stays pressed up against the wall until soldier is gone, and then he turns around and slides down the wall back-first.

 

He certainly didn’t expect this development. His body is thrumming with the testosterone-driven energy the soldier left behind in his retreat, aching from the brutal, if brief, assault. His toes curl in his shoes as he palms desperately at the front of his pants.

 

Not one to relinquish to touching himself very often – it always leaves him too fuzzy and unaware and vulnerable – spy can’t stop himself now. He’s hopelessly aroused, and he closes his eyes as he fumbles desperately with the clasps of his trousers.

 

His fingers are shaking as he struggles to open the button and pull down the zipper but soon enough its done and there's the sweet relief of being free from the oppressing pressure against his cock before he's overwhelmed with need again.

 

There's no time to waste in getting undressed or even pushing down his pants. He opens them as wide as they'll go and pulls his already fully erect cock out of his underwear. He should feel more ashamed about this, about masturbating in a public place like a hormonal teenager but having given himself up to his Soldier-fueled lusts there's little more shame left to grace the situation.

 

He spits in his palm to ease the way and the second he touches himself, his thoughts bloom with visions of the soldier. Pushing him up against that wall, grinding in closer, biting down on his shoulder. The spy has never been particularly open with his homosexuality, but that’s a product of America’s obsession with heteronormativity. He’d never been in a country where someone could be arrested just for having sex. Back in his own country, he would have given up to his desire and propositioned soldier on the spot.

 

Then again, back in his own country, they don’t have men like soldier. Rippling with muscle and raw kinetic energy, power packed into every inch of him. Shouting every word like he can’t get it out of his body fast enough. Spy wonders how his hands feel, if they’re smooth or calloused, and how tight they would grip his hips while he was fucked ruthlessly from behind. He whimpers.

 

He wishes he could close his eyes and let the visions his imagination is pulling up overwhelm him but his training won't allow it. It'd be too easy to be taken by surprise and killed. Or worse, Soldier could return and he'd have no warning.

 

But what if he did come back? What would he do? Would he be shocked and just stand there, letting Spy finish himself off before his eyes? Would he flee? Or maybe he'd crowd him against the wall, grab his wrist away and take him in his own large hand. Maybe he'd bring Spy to orgasm before pushing him down on his knees and making him swallow his own large cock. "Shove it down his throat" to use the Soldier's own words.

 

He spills over the edge in moments, quicker than he’s ever come before. His skull cracks against the wall and his feet lift right off the ground, arching with bliss. He bites down on his lip to keep his voice in check as he shakes through a powerful, if only marginally satisfying orgasm.

 

When the tension leaks out of him, and he’s left sitting against the wall, chest heaving, cock out, he realizes the full weight of what he’s just done. He groans and scrubs his face. His mask suddenly feels too tight and itchy. He’s never given in to his fantasies like that before, he’s always so in control of himself.

 

He tucks himself away and closes his pants, which now feel sticky and too hot. He wishes he were naked, spread out on his or soldier's bed with cool sheets around him and some time to enjoy his release. Instead he has to make the long walk back to base and sneak through the halls until he can find an empty bathroom to shower and scrub away his shame.


	5. Chapter 5

Soldier wasn’t kidding when he said he was going to double his efforts. His passion gets the better of him, however, and whatever stealth he might have been learning suffers for it. He never gets quite as close as he did that day, and spy thinks they’re better off for it. He doesn’t need to be that close to the soldier ever again, unless he’s taking the larger man to bed.

 

Which, granted, probably isn’t going to happen. Soldier is a red-blooded American male who is probably as fertile as they come and if he doesn’t have a wife already (spy actually has no idea) then he’ll have one some day and pop eleven sons out of her before retiring to live in some good old-fashioned American old folks home. Provided he doesn’t die in some heroic fiery explosion first.

 

But at least spy has his fantasies.

 

And what fantasies they are. Almost every night he's consumed with thoughts of himself and Soldier locked together, Soldier taking him fast and hard, rougher than Spy usually likes but with Soldier it's too good to ask for anything softer.

 

He imagines Soldier bending him over the tables in the mess hall, sneaking up on him in the shower and taking him from behind, calling him into his quarters and taking him on the bed with Spy bent almost in half beneath him so he can thrust as deeply as possible. He imagines being up against that wall again, his legs wrapped around Soldier's waist with only the wall and Soldier's hands to hold him up as he fills him again and again.

 

He never makes the mistake of thinking these thoughts by daylight again. They are strictly night time companions, when he is alone with his cock in one hand, the fingers of the other teasing his body, too thin and too short to really replicate what he wants. It's enough to have him biting his pillow to keep from crying out though as he ruins another set of sheets.

 

During the day he manages to keep them under wraps. It’s not too hard, as it turns out, because the soldier of his fantasies is much quieter and more serious than soldier actually is. He’ll yell and stomp around and generally remind spy that he’s not ever going to be the man spy dreams about.

 

It’s not too hard to keep it in his pants when soldier is screaming “YOU CHEATED, MAGGOT.”

 

He’s amazed at how quickly his view of soldier changed. Once upon a time, his shouting was annoying – okay, it’s still annoying, but now it’s also entertaining. Spy has to keep a smile from creasing his face whenever the soldier fumbles and makes up a new curse word like “AH, HORSEHUMP!” He has to force himself not to laugh when soldier yells at someone else for running into him in the hall, foiling another already foiled sneak attempt.

 

When spy finally suggests they move on from invisibility to disguises, soldier jumps at the chance.

 

“All you ‘ave to do is fool someone into zinking you are ze enemy,” spy tells him as he shows him how to use the disguise feature of the spytron. “Pick one of ze disguise cloaks and try it out.”

 

Soldier hems and haws over the choices before finally settling on an enemy scout. The disguise drops into place and he frowns as he looks himself over. His body seems so much smaller, thinner and less powerful. His light blue uniform has transformed into baseball pants and a red tee shirt, cleats and a baseball hat. He looks himself over in the glass of a nearby window and screws up his nose. He looks about ten years younger, too.

 

“So all I have to do is pretend to be someone else?” soldier asks, his voice completely unchanged, loud and much too deep to be coming out of the face of that scout.

 

“Not zat simple. You ‘ave to adopt zeir mannerisms and try to mimic zeir voice. It’s not good enough to just walk in and say ‘I’m a scout!’ You ‘ave to make zem believe,” spy explains. Soldier just blinks at him.

 

"I will show you." Spy says, since it's clear Soldier isn't getting it. He turns on his own spytron and selects the appearance of a nurse, one on their own side.

 

"Watch." he says as he rounds a corner where a group of engineers is talking about some new automatic weapon one of them has developed.

 

His disguise is a female nurse, one many of the men have been trying to seduce since she arrived. She's confident so Spy makes sure to sway his hips a little as he approaches the group, and keep his head held high.

 

"Mr. Addens?" he says to one of the men, adopting the woman's soft voice and Midwestern accent. The men instantly stop talking to each other to pay attention her. "Mr. Addens the doctor has been looking for you everywhere. It seems your little brother was badly injured earlier today. I suggest you hurry down to surgery right now."

 

The man runs off, one of his buddies going with him. Spy doesn't watch them go, knowing the nurses are too busy for that sort of thing. Instead he turns without another word and leaves the group to round the corner and rejoin Soldier.

 

"You see?" he asks, dropping the disguise. "Zey would not 'ave listened if I 'ad just acted like myself. You must get into character."

 

“Okay, I think I get it,” the soldier nods, putting his hands on his hips. He’s still standing way too broadly, with his legs spread and shoulders back. “But, can I call redo? I have a different idea.”

 

Spy rolls his eyes as soldier drops the disguise in order to take the appearance of the RED medic, complete with tiny owly glasses and gel-slicked hair. He nods as he checks himself out and spy follows him as he heads out. He wouldn’t miss this for the world.

 

The disguised soldier approaches the mess hall with a grin. He peeks around the corner to see ample people around to fool. There’s always a large group in the mess hall when they aren’t fighting. He jumps out from behind the wall and all eyes turn to him immediately, and they almost look suspicious, a few hands stray to weapons, but then the soldier shouts,

 

“I’m a nazi! Shoot me!”

 

The hall goes dead silent before everyone erupts into loud laughs and cheers. Behind him Spy covers his mouth to keep from falling into a fit of giggles along with the others.

 

He grabs the confused Soldier by the arm and pulls him back into the empty hall, away from the ongoing guffawing of their comrades.

 

"Zat is what you zink 'e talks like?" he asks when they get far enough away the mess hall. "You zink 'e just goes around announcing zat 'e is a Nazi and demanding to be shot on sight? Oh merde you 'ave so much to learn."

 

Soldier doesn’t fare much better when he tries to masquerade as the Heavy everyone knows, with his great bald head and booming voice. Soldier’s voice sounds almost high-pitched coming out of someone everyone expects to rattle the ceiling with his baritone.

 

When he tries to be the RED demoman, he puts real effort into the accent, but he sounds like he’s gargling marbles, and spy actually snorts with laughter.

 

He tries to disguise himself as the RED spy, but it’s mostly just to mess with his spy. “HON HON BAGUETTE, MAGGOT!”

 

"'Ave you considered trying to disguise yourself as an enemy _soldier?_ " Spy asks one day after another failed attempt by Soldier to disguise himself, this time as the enemy sniper. He'd been doing fairly well until he'd started in on a rant about kangaroos of all things and it had completely fallen apart around him.

 

"It is something you know, 'e does not have an accent different from yours and 'is voice is very similar to yours. It would be easy for you to master." he continues, hoping the idea will appeal to Soldier and they can finish early today.

 

“That’s too easy!” soldier shouts while disguised as the RED engineer, struggling with the unwieldy wrench the disguise gave him. “It’s practically cheating! I can’t win by cheating, it’s just not right!”

 

"It is not cheating. It is maximizing your resources," Spy counters. "You do not 'ave zis accent right eizer. 'e speaks more slowly. But you are closer in voice zis time. And do not play wiz ze wrench. It is a tool not a toy."

 

Soldier mutters about cheating some more while he tries to convince a group of engineers that he’s there to steal their tech. By this point, word has gotten around that the soldier is trying to impersonate the enemy, so they wouldn’t have believe him even if he DID get the accent right.

 

When soldier finally relinquishes and disguises as the enemy soldier, it goes well. Or, rather, it goes so well it goes poorly.

 

He’s believable, alright. So believable he gets shot.

 

Spy is in a panic as a scout barrels through the halls to go get a medic. He stays behind in shock when the soldier is taken away, thoughts reeling. He didn’t want this to happen. The bloodstain left behind on the wall makes him sick.

 

He wonders if any of this was worth it. It started out in good fun, he even started to enjoy himself after a point, but it wasn’t worth the soldier’s blood. He heads down to the medical bay, unsure of what to say.

 

Soldier is sitting on the edge of one of the metal cots, alone. The nurses left some time ago. It must have been a simple procedure, just pull out the bullet and give him a jolt of the medigun. His life probably wasn’t even in danger. Spy didn’t see where he got shot, all he saw was blood. A lot of blood.

 

He takes a step forward, to apologize, or… or _something_. But he stops when he hears the soldier sigh, and watches him unclip the spytron watch from his wrist. He sets it down on the gurney beside him and his shoulders slump.

 

Spy is surprised. He’s never seen the way the soldier acts when he’s alone. Around the others he’s all orders and shouts and bravery with his chest stuck out. He’s spit and grit and toughness, putting scouts into headlocks and challenging heavies to fight. Alone, it seems, that has seeped out of him. Of course, that could have been the bloodloss.

 

Spy decides to cloak and observe. It might be an invasion of privacy, but since when does he ever _not_ invade privacy?

 

“I’m not cut out for this spy nonsense,” the soldier mutters to himself, looking over at the watch. His fists clench and his brows pull together like he’s about to be angry, but it leaves him before it even collects enough traction for him to throw the watch. “Spy was right, damn it. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

 

Spy sighs silently before backing out of the room to uncloak. He won't take away Soldier's dignity by revealing he'd witnessed such a personal moment.

 

He's a little surprised that Soldier is giving up now, when he's finally made some headway. He might have gotten shot but he accomplished the task. He convinced them of who he was trying to be. He should be triumphant.

 

But real spies almost never get shot, not while they're being stealthy. And not by their own teammate, even though that's not who they're trying to fool usually. He can see where soldier might think he's failed and it makes him a little sad seeing him so defeated. He feels even worse knowing it’s his fault.

 

He gives it a moment before he comes back into the room uncloaked, giving Soldier plenty of time to put back on his normal facade.

 

"I know I told you to trick zem. But it is okay to let the charade go before zey kill you." he teases. "Of course, you are lucky whoever shot you is such a bad shot."

 

“He wasn’t a bad shot,” soldier mutters, sliding off the gurney to pull his boots back on. “But I won’t forget his face! I’ll track him down and I’ll show him what happens when you shoot a fellow officer! Friendly fire will not be tolerated!”

 

He looks at the watch on the table and his outward façade almost crumbles. Spy can see a flash of vulnerability in his eyes before he settles his helmet on his head and picks up the watch, holding it out.

 

“I think I’m done,” he says, keeping his voice as hard as it usually is. “I’m calling a draw. We’re both terrible.”

 

"No," Spy counters. He doesn't take the watch. "We are not terrible. We are just not meant to be each ozer. We are both exactly where we are meant to be. Zat is good zough. Zis war could not be won wiz just soldiers or spies."

 

He pushes Soldier's hand away without taking the watch. "It is not mine. I 'ave my own. Keep it or return it to supply it is up to you. I do not need it."

 

Soldier’s face almost softens into a smile. Spy sees the way he steels his jaw as he nods and puts the watch in one of the pockets of his uniform jacket. He lifts his belt and hooks it around his waist.

 

“You’re a damn good spy,” he says suddenly, catching the spy completely off guard. “We’re lucky that you’re the spy and not me. I’d lose this war for us if I was!”

 

"We are lucky you are ze soldier and I am not. I would most likely kill as many of our troops as ze REDs wiz my terrible aim." Spy laughs. "You are a very good soldier. Ze best we 'ave in fact. Best to keep you where you are."

 

Soldier does crack a smile now and claps spy on the back hard enough to make him stumble as they start to walk back towards the mess hall.

 

“If it was you against me though, I’d still kick your lily French ass.”


	6. Chapter 6

The BLU team doesn’t know what to make of it when the spy and soldier start spending time together. Whenever the group is settled in the mess hall, the soldier loudly telling a story, spy actually laughs along with them now instead of rolling his eyes in disdain. The soldier claps spy on the shoulder with an emphatic “Job well done, private!” out in the field whenever his cloak drops after a successful assassination. They sit together when they eat and talk about their most impressive kills of the day.

 

In a word, respect.

 

Soldier would never admit to _respecting_ spy out loud, but spy doesn’t need him to. It’s evident in the way he doesn’t shout as loudly when the two of them are alone, in the way he protects him in the field, in the way he lets spy call him by his name.

 

Names are precious at war, only good friends refer to one another as anything other than their class. Even so, soldier doesn’t let most people he’s closer to call him by his name. Probably because the only people who would call him “Jane” are the ones who would make fun of him for it.

 

Spy doesn't tell Jane his name. It's not because he doesn't respect him or trust him to a certain degree. But it’s an important part of spy training to keep your identity a secret no matter what and he's taken that training to heart for far too long to let it go so easily. He tries to tell Jane but the other man just shrugs it off as if it's no big deal. Spy tries to make it up to him by using his name respectfully and never around anyone who he thinks might use it to mock his friend.

 

Friend. It took a long time to accept that. But they are friends. They have to be to act as they do around each other. They laugh together, greet each other in the halls and come to gather each other after an injury in battle leaves one of them in surgery. They both know that when they're done the other will be waiting there for them.

 

Spy still thinks of Soldier in other ways too. He can't help it. Just because he's seen a softer side to the man doesn't mean all his fantasies disappear. If anything it only spurs him on. He imagines being taken gently, with plenty of preparation that's already driven him nearly to the brink as often as he imagines hard, hasty couplings in random corners of the base. He imagines kissing the soldier while he rides him as much if not more than he imagines bruising kisses and harsh hands on his hips holding him in place.

 

And if he imagines things like private meals together or lying in bed all night wrapped around each other, well that's his business. There's no harm to it as long as no one knows.

 

On the field, soldier tries to protect him as often as he can see him. The spy spends so much time cloaked that most of the time they don’t run into each other, but whenever spy drops his cloak to let it recharge, if soldier is nearby he doesn’t hesitate to give him cover.

 

“It’s what friends are for!” he’ll shout while gleefully firing rockets at approaching enemies, spy doubled over on his knees trying to catch his breath and smiling at the way soldier shamelessly screams about their friendship. An unlikely duo, maybe. A ticking time bomb until the next shouting match that will inevitably break up the friendship, probably. But soldier seems pretty committed to keeping the spy safe and sound.

 

He’s even taken a bullet or two for the smaller man, claiming that it doesn’t even hurt. “Bullets don’t hurt when you take them for friends! It’s war rules 101!” he shouts while trying to stop the bleeding.

 

He saves Jane's life too of course. He pulls him out of the way of scouts and more than once takes out snipers that were aiming at the soldier's head. It's enough that he feels like he's repaid his debt even if he's yet to bleed for the man.

 

But no matter how many times he manages to save Jane it never feels nearly as impressive as when Soldier does it for him. And he never has a chance to use any of what he learned from his week playing soldier. Not that there's much he could do. Even if he found one a rocket launcher lying about there's no way he could shoot it with any kind of accuracy. He'd only end up doing more harm than good.

 

Soldier on the other hand gets his chance to show off what Spy taught him. They'd managed to secure an enemy control point together one day, with Soldier there to cover Spy and keep any enemies from offing him and taking back the point before the others could be controlled. Things seemed to be going well and Spy was even starting to relax a little, content to allow Jane to do his work. He was so relaxed that he missed the tell tale shimmer of a spy's cloak coming from his left and moving around to his back. Luckily Jane's training seemed to kick in and he spotted and killed the spy before he managed to plunge his knife into Spy's back.

 

It's impressive, to say the least. The point of spies is to be hard to spot and Jane finding one that had managed to elude Spy himself is enough to warrant the frenchman buying him a round of drinks when the days work is done to celebrate.

 

Spy has never felt particularly useful when it comes to pushing the bomb carts, however. He’s never volunteered for payload duty, and even his name gets signed on through the draft, he finds someone to swap with. Usually through blackmail. It pays to have dirt on everyone in the base.

 

But this time, he decides, what the heck. Soldier is going along, and the spy never fails to have a good time on the field when Jane is around. He’s never boring, that’s for sure. He might even be able to sneak around and stab a few people in the back before people notice there’s a spy around and start to look for him. It’s always fun to count how many people he can off before the REDs get wise.

 

They run out of resupply with their heads held high, ready to push the cart along the tracks. Spy brought up his cloak right away, before the REDs even get a chance to see him, and checks out what’s ahead.

 

He slips through the enemy lines with ease, dropping his invisibility cloak and seamlessly transitioning into an enemy engineer to scope the area. There’s a turret set up around a dangerous corner, and a nest of sticky bombs planted around the walls of a wooden arch that the tracks pass under. He sneaks up into a sniper nest to eliminate the sniper waiting there before sneaking back to find the bomb already close to the first checkpoint.

 

“There’s a turret,” he warns the soldier, sticking close to his side while still invisible. “Warn the others.”

 

The turret is eliminated easily by four well-placed rockets from two different rocket launchers. The soldiers high-five their victory before shouldering the bomb along again.

 

If there’s one thing Jane can’t stand, it’s people who run away. His rocket misses an enemy scout just barely, and he leaves the bomb pushing to the others in order to chase him down.

 

“Give it up, kid! Your legs below the knees are MINE!” he shouts, spraying the retreating scout with dirt as another rocket just barely misses him.

 

The spy laughs to himself as he hears the soldier threaten the fleeing scout. But when he turns his head to look, he sees Jane headed right for the arch smattered with sticky bombs just on the other side.

 

He tries to call out to him but its obvious Soldier doesn't hear him. His own shouting and shooting drowns out the words that will save his life.

 

It doesn't leave Spy with much of a choice. He takes off after Jane, hoping he will travel faster than the soldier since he is not burdened with heavy muscle or weaponry and can catch him in time to stop him before he gets himself killed.

 

“Wait! Jane, no! Stop!”

 

The soldier hear just in time. Turns his head, but he’s already there. There’s a faint beeping as the cluster of bombs’ motion sensors go off. It’s too late to get away. The spy doesn’t even think, he just throws himself on the soldier from behind and they both go flying through the blast. It’s the best they can do to hope that they’re out of range before the brunt of the explosion domino effects through the rest of the bombs.

 

Jane hits the ground with a grunt, his helmet toppling off and the scout running off in the distance. His rocket launcher goes rolling away and he feels a sharp rock dig into his ribcage and draw blood. He spits blood out of his mouth and wipes at a sticky cut on his cheek where shrapnel took a chunk out.

 

He feels a weight on top of him, and remembers spy grabbing onto him from behind. Before he can even open his mouth to ask if he’s okay, he feels blood run down the side of his neck and drip to the ground. In a flash of panic he rolls the spy off him, and his stomach drops.

 

Spy’s eyes are closed. Everything from his ribcage to his hip on the right side has been pretty chewed up by the explosion, bleeding freely. Soldier cries out, hands shaking, he doesn’t even know where to begin to stop the bleeding.

 

“Medic!” he screams to his team, a few yards away. He shakes the spy’s shoulders, he has to see him open his eyes, the man has to be alive, he can’t let some spy take his heroic battle death! It might also have something to do with the fact that he cares about this spy in particular, but he’s too panicked to admit that to himself. “Wake up, private!” he shouts, smacking the spy gently. His head turns from the force of the gentle pattering of smacks and he sees hair matted with blood poking through a tear in the mask. He has a head injury on top of his bleeding open wound and the window of opportunity to keep him alive is closing fast.

 

The medic doesn’t even take the time to slow down as he charges over, sliding up to them on his knees like a baseball player and charging his medigun.   


Spy wakes to pain and a familiar voice shouting orders nearby. He can't quite make out what Soldier is saying and his shouting is only making the pounding in his head worse but it's nice to know he's there. He realizes a second too late that he said that out loud.

 

He opens his eyes to find everything hazy and tinged with red. He blinks a few times and finds that the red is blood that's dripped onto his face. It clears away fast enough and he gets a good look at Soldier. He's alive, which was the objective of throwing himself into the bombs so Spy considers that a triumph. Even if he is pale and bleeding and looks more scared than Spy has ever seen him, he's alive.

 

He looks down then to see why his side hurts so terribly and can see a medic with a medigun aimed at some very large gashes across his ribs that thankfully are closing quickly. The pain from the injuries should be gone soon, at least that’s what he hopes, but the grogginess isn't going anywhere fast. He's going to need a lot of sleep or a blood transfusion to fix that.

 

"What do you zink doctor?" he asks, his words slow and mumbled. His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. "Is it too far gone? Can you save my suit?"

 

The soldier stops shouting and looks down at the spy, nostrils flared and eyes wide and shoulders raised, but he relaxes a little at his words.

 

“You did a good thing there, private,” he gently knuckles the edge of the spy’s jaw. “But you know, you’re not supposed to take bombs to the face.”

 

"I would never risk my face." Spy retorts. "My ribs and internal organs on the ozer 'and, zose are replaceable. Zat is why I came at you from zat angle. Of course, if you 'ad been paying more attention I would not 'ave 'ad to."

 

He smiles though to show there's no hard feelings between the two of them. "But now we are even. You took a bullet for me and I took ze blast from ze bombs for you."

 

“Bullets and bombs should not be created equally!” soldier scolds. “Don’t take any more bombs for me! I’ll take all my own bombs from now on, got it?!”

 

"You would 'ave died. Whereas I only _could_ 'ave died." Spy sighed. He was feeling tired, his eyes starting to close.

 

"Can't sleep," the medic snapped. "Not until I get at your head wound. Just another minute then we'll get you back to base but if you sleep now you could fall into a coma."

 

Spy sighes again forces his eyes open to look at Soldier. "You may 'ave to carry me 'ome again. I 'ope you don't mind."

 

Soldier doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have any clever remarks or snarky comments. He can’t even speak as the medic cuts away a square of fabric big enough to inspect the spy’s head wound near the top of his skull. His throat closes up and he feels like he’s being choked.

 

He doesn’t think twice about taking injuries for comrades, it’s like second nature. It’s the right thing to do, taking an arrow to the side from a sniper that would have pierced the lung of a scout, or suffering a leg injury to save a downed engineer from a headshot. But spies, they’re not like that at all. Spies, it seems, only look out for themselves.

 

This spy took a bomb for him. A truckload of them! Soldier might not be very smart but he’s not exactly stupid either. He’s noticed that he’s a rare breed, one of the very few who will risk their own blood and bone to keep their comrades safe. He’s no martyr, but the rest of his team _definitely_ isn’t. Especially not the spies.

 

 _This_ spy risked dying for him. His stomach feels all funny when he thinks about the spy dying for him. It’s just not right.

 

The medic heals up Spy's head and tells him to head back to base. He tries to stand and all but falls into Soldier's arms.

 

"It looks like my little joke was not so funny," he grimaces. "I do need your 'elp. My legs will not 'old me. Side effect of near-lethal blood loss you know."

 

The soldier doesn’t hesitate to carry the spy. He doesn’t even crack any jokes. He doesn’t say that ‘this could have been avoided, if…’ He doesn’t say anything at all. He holds the spy like he thinks he’ll break apart with too much pressure, under the knees and around the shoulders. He rushes past the REDs and the BLUs alike, and shouts to them that he’s not coming back to the fighting, and wishes them good luck without him.

 

“You’re being very quiet,” the spy’s speech is slurred slightly with tiredness. “You are never quiet.”

 

“Go to sleep,” is all the soldier says.

 

"Not yet. Not safe yet." Spy says even as they cross the threshold to the base. He feels safe in Soldier's arms. Safe and warm and more comfortable than he's ever been, even on his soft specially ordered mattress. But he can't sleep yet. Not until they're through the base and into a private room where Soldier can just hold him without fear of anyone seeing.

 

But no, that's not right. He's not going to stay and hold him while he sleeps, as nice as that sounds. He'll put him to bed and then leave again, back to the fighting and the danger.

 

"Don't leave." Spy murmurs, turning his head to hide his face in Jane's chest. He clutches weakly at his shirt as if he's already trying to pull away. "You 'ave to stay."

 

The soldier slows on his way to the wing the spy’s room with a frown. “Why do you want me to stay?” he asks, shifting the spy in his arms so he can try to see his face. Most of his face.

 

"Who else will keep me safe?" Spy asks sleepily. His grip on Jane's shirt begins to loosen as he starts to drift off, despite fighting hard to stay awake.

 

He looks down at the sleepy spy, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The spy actually trusts him. Really trusts him.

 

“Nobody, that’s who,” he says doggedly, and turns around to head down the hall to his own room. It’s closer, and the spy really looks like he could use a mattress. He’s asleep by the time they get there, drifting in and out of consciousness, muttering a few words before he’s lost to the fatigue again.

 

He strips the bloody, destroyed suit coat and tie off the spy’s shoulders and tosses them to the floor. The spy wakes up just long enough to tug at his shirt, so the soldier undoes the buttons and helps him out of it. Pointless, considering it’s in tatters. He slips off the spy’s shoes but when he tries to take off his socks, they’re stuck fast to his legs. He hikes up his pant leg to find tiny sock garters.

 

“What the hell are these?” he huffs, picking at the tiny clasps. “You’ve got your socks hostage!”

 

"Zey... slip down." Spy yawns. His eyes are closed and he can feel sleep tugging at him. He'll be asleep again in a matter of moments, as soon as he's comfortable.

 

He tries to lift a hand to tug off his mask but can't seem to get his arm high enough.

 

"I need.... my mask... sticky and too warm." he mutters. "Take it off...... but do not look. Can't.... see yet."

 

Soldier’s mouth seals in a firm line. “I won’t look,” he says seriously, tipping his helmet down and feeling for the base of the mask around the spy’s neck. He carefully peels it off, gentle enough so he doesn’t risk aggravating any leftover pain from the head injury. He can’t help but feel a little bit out of curiosity. He already knew the man had a little stubble, that much is visible through his mask. He didn’t expect to feel sideburns as he drags the cloth up over his head, or for long curls to fall out of the confines of the cloth. His hair is very soft to the touch, it almost feels like a woman’s hair. The only counterpoint to the femininity of his hair is the scratch of his stubble on the soldier’s fingers.

 

He lifts the tired spy again and helps him shimmy out of his tattered trousers, leaving him in nothing but a ripped and bloodstained undershirt and simple white cotton boxers. He tucks him under the covers of his bed.

 

“Just… rest,” he clears his throat officially. “I’ll sit by the window and I won’t look at your face, soldier’s honor!”

 

Spy smiles. He really doesn't care if Soldier looks. He'll probably give in in a few minutes but that's okay. If anyone is allowed to see him it's Jane.

 

"Zank you... knew I could.... trust you." the last word trails off as he falls blissfully to sleep.

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	7. Chapter 7

The sky is dark next time the spy opens his eyes. He blinks around the room. There’s a wax lamp burning on the dresser, giving the faintest golden tint to the small room. There’s a crate full of dirty clothes and a stained rug under a desk covered in nothing but gun parts, and a single arm chair, which is turned towards the only window, that doesn’t even have glass in it. Odd that he would have such a tiny and under furnished room considering how well paid the heads of the classes are.

 

The soldier is asleep in the chair, slumped over the windowsill at a strange angle. It’s raining outside lightly, and the top of his head is probably very wet by now.

 

It looks like he slept for hours. It was barely past midday when they reached the soldier’s room. He feels quite refreshed, if a little chilled under the single blanket on Jane’s bed, little more than a sheet with a few poorly patched holes.

 

He can't help but smile. Jane didn't look. That's why he fell asleep at such an odd angle. He kept his promise and never looked over at Spy's face. He never should have doubted him.

 

He considers getting up to wake the man but is unwilling to give up the little bit of warmth the blanket offers. Instead he sits up and calls over to the Soldier, hoping to wake him.

 

"Jane!" he calls three times, louder and louder each time until he startles his friend awake.

 

“What, what!” the soldier almost falls out of his chair in his haste to stand and whips around, clapping a hand over his eyes, his other hand outstretched. “Is someone attacking?! I’ll kill ‘im! Point me in the right direction with your words because I can’t see!”

 

"You can uncover your eyes I am turned away." Spy says, laying down again and turning towards the wall. "Zere is no one attacking. I am just cold."

 

The soldier peeks through his fingers to make sure before dropping his hand. The spy peeks over his shoulder when he hears the sound of clinking, and sees the soldier removing the belts across his shoulders and waist.

 

“Well, zat’s ‘asty,” he chuckles as the soldier strips off his coat. “I didn’t expect you to offer zat so quickly.”

 

“Offer what?” the soldier shrugs the blue coat off his shoulders. He’s wearing nothing but a tight white tank top underneath, hiding absolutely nothing. “You said you’re cold.” He drops the coat over the spy’s upper body. It’s warmed by his own body heat, and smells like cologne and aftershave and faintly of sweat and tobacco.

 

Spy manages to keep from groaning in disappointment. He had hoped... well maybe soldier just needs to be presented with the option.

 

"You will freeze like zat," He says. "You will get a cold and will be useless to me in ze field. If you do try to go out you will only get yourself in trouble and I will 'ave to save you again. And who knows if I will survive?"

 

He hears the sharp intake of breath that tells him exactly what Jane thinks of that. This is almost too easy.

 

"Zere is more zen enough room in ze bed. Get under ze blanket wiz me."

 

“That sounds a little ho-mo-sex-ual, friend,” the soldier says firmly. “I’ll be fine! I’m too hot-blooded to catch a cold. I’ve never had a cold all my life! Well, except that one time, but that doesn’t count.”

 

"I 'ave never understood American's aversion to zings zey think are 'omosexual or to 'omosexuals zemselves. If you are so secure in your masculinity and 'ow much you love women zen nozing should be able to change zat." Spy laughs. "But if you are so weak zat even lying beside a friend is enough to change you zen I suppose it makes sense."

 

“I’m not weak!”

 

Hook, line and sinker.

 

The fire that always burns in soldier’s words and actions seems to burn under his skin, too. He’s as warm as a campfire, much warmer than the blanket and even warmer than his coat. He doesn’t face the other man, instead lying beside him back-to-back. It’s more than warm enough for the spy to be comfortable, but if they’ve come this far, then why stop here?

 

He turns over and presses his chest against Jane's broad, muscular back. He's so warm and so solid. Spy can feel the strength of him when he shifts and his muscles move beneath Spy's hands. He's so powerful. What it would be like to have him hold him down and...

 

The blood starts to flow south and he quickly shuts down that train of thought. That would be too far right now. If soldier felt even how hard he is now, not even fully aroused, he'd bolt and Spy will never get him back in bed.

 

The soldier sucks in a breath when he feels the spy press up against him. It’s all a matter of proximity, he tells himself. Of course he’s feeling a little warm because of the contact, he’s sharing a bed with another human being. Any normal man would feel a little warm. In the face. And the chest.

 

Plus, it’s not just anyone in the bed with him. It’s the spy, the man he trusts more than anyone on his own team. He’s got feelings for him no matter what way Jane looks at it, but they’re just normal feelings! Friendship feelings. Respect feelings. Totally heterosexual and platonic feelings.

 

"You're 'uge." Spy mutters against Jane's back. "Larger zan any man 'as any right to be. You make me feel like a child next to you."

 

He knows he's rambling but he has to say something. He has to keep a dialogue open if he wants this to go anywhere. If it doesn't go where he wants it to be he can always pass it off later as exhaustion clouding his mind.

 

"And you are so warm. I wish I 'ad someone like you to warm my bed every night. I would sleep much better."

 

“I’m not as big as the heavies,” soldier mutters, his cheeks feel warm. Spy never compliments anyone like this, he must be trying to get something out of him. Something like money or a favor or maybe he’s fishing for blackmail material. Yeah, that’s gotta be it.

 

He suddenly sits up and the spy grunts at the loss of warmth and contact. The soldier starts to fiddle with his feet, and the spy leans up to see that he’s taking his boots off. He’d climbed into bed so quickly he hadn’t even paused to take them off. He laughs and knocks his forehead against Jane’s bare shoulder.

 

“Are you so ‘asty to get into bed wiz me?” he teases, and earns an elbow to the shoulder for it. "It is alright wiz me. I would be 'onored. It would be a compliment zat someone like you would want to get in bed wiz me. Especially wizout seeing my face." Spy laughs. He slides one hand up Soldier's back to grasp his shoulder. "Would you like to see?"

 

Of course he wants to see. He’s wanted to see since day one. The masks just make him nervous, he doesn’t like not being able to see his own allies’ faces. Some of the spies are more relaxed with their rules, and they’ll take their masks off during down time, but he’s not close to any of the other spies. He hasn’t burned to see any of their faces as badly as he has for this one man.

 

“It’s not right!” he declares. “Isn’t that the number one spy rule? You’re not supposed to show your face! Why the heck else would you wear those stupid baklavas all the time?”

 

Spy pauses for a second and starts to laugh. "Baklava is a turkish dessert! I do not wear a pastry on my face! It’s a balaclava." his giggles subside and he smiles, shifting a little closer to lean against Soldier's back. "But zat is not important. What is important is zat I do not trust anyone else. I trusted you not to look when I asked you not to and you didn't. You didn't leave me when I asked you to stay. You saved my life and carried me back when I saved yours. If zere is anyone I can trust wiz my identity it is you, Jane."

 

The soldier is full of conflicted feelings that make his hands sweat. He’s much too simple a man to deal with this kind of internal warfare. He’s got enough facilities to manage one major emotion at a time! But right now his gut is churning with curiosity and selfishness and guilt and some part of him is occupied only with the way the spy’s body feels curled up behind his own.

 

Maybe it’s just because he’s a sucker for the way his name sounds in spy’s mouth. He slowly looks over his shoulder, but all he can see is the top of his head. A mop of bed-messy brown curls. When the spy feels his muscles shift under his forehead, he looks up, and the soldier sucks in a breath through his nose, his nostrils flaring.

 

He’s handsome. Handsome is probably an understatement, but the soldier doesn’t know any other words to use. His vocabulary is pretty strictly limited to what you learn up to the eighth grade. He doesn’t have words to describe the spy’s tired blue eyes or his attractively trimmed stubble or well groomed sideburns, or his curly head of hair that shouldn’t rightfully exist on a man, or his long, slim jaw or his knife-edge cheekbones.

 

It’s official. He’s seen the spy’s face.

 

“I… I don’t know what to do with this information,” he says honestly.

 

"You don't do anyzing." Spy tells him with a playful smile. "It is just a face. You do not go about telling people of all ze faces you've seen. Zis is ze same. You 'ave seen it, now you know. I 'ope you will not betray me."

 

“I would sooner die!” the soldier shouts. “I’ll carry this secret to my grave! The best terrorists in the world couldn’t torture it out of me!”

 

Spy's smile turns into a grin and he wants more than ever to lean up and press his lips to Soldier's. But he can't. Instead he settles for the next best thing and kisses his cheek in a way that in France would have been perfectly friendly and common amongst even male friends.

 

"Zank you," he whispers in Jane's ear before pulling back.

 

Soldier splutters a ‘you’re welcome!’ while he fumbles with the last laces on his boots and kicks them off. He flops back onto the bed, his skin burning from his ears to his neck, bright red.

 

“Keep your kisses to yourself, private, we’re not in Europe anymore!” he blusters, but the spy can hear the tremble in his voice.

 

"You are acting as if I really kissed you." Spy laughs. He leans over Soldier, his face hovering just a few inches above his friend’s. "It was a friendly peck on the cheek. Brozerly, almost. If I 'ad really kissed you my friend, you would know it. Mostly because we would not be finished yet."

 

The soldier didn’t think his face could get any redder, but apparently he was wrong. He scrambles to put some distance between them – any distance – so quickly that he falls right off the bed, taking the blanket with him.

 

“You- you’re- you- my- !!” he can’t even speak. His voice is all broken up in his chest, hammered to pieces by his thundering heartbeat. “I’m not a homosexual!”

 

"Neizer am I." Spy says solemnly, with a heavy nod. "But zat does not mean I do not enjoy men. I find men and women very attractive. You know you don't 'ave to choose one or ze ozer. You can 'ave both. If you want."

 

The room is filled with silence, the soldier still tangled in the sheet on the floor, staring up at the spy with an open mouth. The only sound is the rain pattering outside. A wind blows through the glassless window and lifts goosebumps on the spy’s arms and legs, but soldier doesn’t seem to notice.

 

“You- are you saying – me?!” he finally splutters out, so loudly and suddenly that spy almost flinches.

 

"It does not 'ave to change anyzing between us." Spy says, nervous for the first time in many, many years. Since he was a young boy with his first boyfriend in Rennes. He has never felt so much for someone he is interested in since then and has certainly never risked this sort of rejection.

 

"We will be friends. Like we were. If you do not turn me in and 'ave me sent 'ome. I will not bring it up again," Spy says sadly. Of course it will change things between them. Jane is probably disgusted with him now.

 

The soldier is dumbstruck, frozen in time. He’s never met a real-life homosexual before. (Nevermind the concept of bisexuality, it’s just too far out of the realm of his understanding.)

 

He remembers being a child, barely older than thirteen, and his father kept him home from school one day because one of the boys in his grade was found out. “Fag,” his father had said, bitter and vicious like a warning. He told Jane then that it was contagious, and the only way to avoid catching it if he ever came in contact with a homosexual is to kill them. Since then, he’s managed to gather enough life experience to understand that homosexuality is about as contagious as freckles, but the “life advice” has stuck with him all these years. His father seemed to think people like the spy deserved death.

 

He’s not sure why. The spy is a good fighter, a great asset to the war. He’s strong and brave and graceful. He’s always seemed so normal. The only difference between him and most other men, apparently, was his tastes in bed. His tastes, apparently, in Jane. His face is so red he’s one step away from bleeding out his eyes.

 

Spy sighs and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He should have known it was hopeless. Why had he bothered to try? They had a good thing going. If he hadn't pushed maybe Jane would have learned to love him.

 

"I'll go now," he says. He stands up on wobbly legs and makes his way to where Jane left his folded clothes. He's still dizzy from bloodloss but he's standing. He can make it to his room. He hopes. "Pretend zis is a dream. An 'orrible dream and zings will be normal in ze morning. We will meet for breakfast, I will call you a pig for eating so much. You tell me I am too skinny and try to make me eat zat disgusting bacon. It will be ze same."

 

He feels a hand on his shoulder. His skin bristles, not sure if he’s expecting an embrace or a blow. Goosebumps rise on the back of his neck. Jane hasn’t stood this close to him since that day in the sniper nest.

 

“You can’t be serious,” soldier says, and he’s definitely not shouting now. “I mean, even if you are homosexual, you’ve gotta be kidding yourself. I’m an ally but I’m not – I’m not any good for all of that romance claptrap.”

 

Spy tries to relax under Soldier's hand, still not entirely sure he isn't about to wrap his arm around his throat and kill him. But he tries to have a little faith and give him the benefit of the doubt. "I zink you could. You may not be capable of long walks in ze park or fancy dinners. But you are caring and loyal already. You are so handsome and so strong. I 'ave wanted you in my bed for months now." he admits. Now that it’s out there there's no reason to hold back the truth. "I have imagined us together many times. Almost every night I zink of you."

 

Soldier swallows, hard.

 

“Oh.” His voice cracks a little bit. “Well. That’s. Um. Hm. I’ve never actually. Okay.”

 

“Okay?” spy turns to face him.

 

“Okay,” the soldier nods.

 

"What are you agreeing to?" Spy asks warily. "Are you agreeing to remain friends and not kill me or turn me in? Are you agreeing to what you know I want? You 'ave to tell me exactly."

 

“I – well – I don’t know exactly,” the soldier stammers. “I’m not going to turn you in! I think there are much more serious crimes than who you roll in the hay with! But other than that I… don’t actually know.”

 

"'Ave you ever kissed a man?" Spy asks him, looking up through his lashes at the blushing soldier.

 

Soldier shakes his head.

 

Spy smoothes his hands down the soldier’s biceps. "Would you like to be kissed? You can close your eyes and pretend I am a woman if it 'elps."

 

‘Fag!’ his father barks somewhere in the back of his mind.

 

He always tried to respect his father. Every good American boy should. Your father is supposed to guide you and take care of you and teach you right from wrong. But this lesson that his father spent so much energy trying to teach him, it doesn’t make sense. Jane can’t help but think there are so many things more important than who you sleep with that you should judge a person by! Like their morality and strength of character, how well they can defend themselves and their loved ones, how loyal they are to a cause and to what end they would go to fight for it! Who the person has sex with, that isn’t even the business of the public! That’s something that happens in private anyway, so why did his father spend so gall darn much time thinking about it?!

 

Either way, if he kissed spy or didn’t, he doesn’t think he’d want to pretend he’s a woman.

 

He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about it at all. He’s very good, in fact, at not thinking about his actions. Do before you can talk yourself out of it, that’s been his motto for years.

 

He grabs the spy’s head in both hands. His palms and fingers are so big that he almost completely eclipses the length of spy’s face. His fingertips just barely touch around the back of his neck, tangled in his hair. He closes the distance between them and their mouths crush together in a less than elegant kiss. But spy wasn’t exactly expecting grace from the soldier.

 

Spy's eyes close, something he rarely does, but the situation calls for small allowances, and lets himself relax under Jane's hands. He grips the man's shirt at his sides to pull him closer, bringing their bodies tight as they kiss each other breathless.

 

It becomes apparent that Soldier has no idea what he's doing. He's too still and unmoving, his lips just pressing forward but not doing anything. Spy suppresses a laugh and takes the lead in the kiss, pulling back before pressing forward again to renew the sensation, opening his mouth a little to tease Jane's lips with his tongue and teeth, just enough to try to lead Jane into a proper kiss.

 

The soldier’s face is hot and his palms feel itchy and the breeze coming in through the window makes them feel cold and clammy. Wind whips in suddenly and blows out the oil lamp, leaving them in darkness, and a little bit damp from the rain that comes in with the gale.

 

“Bed,” the soldier grunts, but before the spy can agree, he’s lifted up off the ground into strong arms. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of being carried by those giant arms. Jane stoops to pick up the blanket still on the floor on his way to the bed before he deposits both that and the spy on the bed.

 

It’s somehow easier, not being able to see the spy. He can still feel the scratch of his stubble when he leans out over him and resumes the kiss after a few hit-and-misses in the dark with his chin and cheek. He can still hear the deep alto of the spy’s voice when he groans in his throat. He can still feel the broadness of his shoulders and taste the tobacco on his breath. He still knows he’s a man, and he wouldn’t want to pretend otherwise. Does that make him homosexual?

 

 

He’s a quick learner. He has to be, in order to survive in war. He follows the spy’s lead, opening and closing his mouth and using his tongue just as cautiously as spy does. He definitely likes the feeling of spy’s arms wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him in closer. He’s bent at an odd angle, sitting at the edge of the bed and twisted so he can reach his mouth, but he doesn’t want to stop the feeling.

 

Spy pulls back just a fraction, enough catch his breath and whisper against Soldier's lips.

 

"Get on ze bed," he commands. "Zis will be much easier wiz you on top of me. I 'ave waited to feel you against me for so long I do not want to wait any longer."

 

“Don’t order me around!” soldier barks, but he obeys anyway. The spy’s legs part and he slides into them, leaning out over him, propped up on his elbows. He drops his head and nuzzles into spy’s neck, inhaling his scent of fancy flowers-and-wood smelling cologne and cigarettes.

 

Maybe he’s a _little_ nervous. But this is just a smaller and much more intimate battlefield! Step one, get a lay of the land. He drags his palms down the spy’s body, wide open fingers and searching touches from his shoulders, down his chest and smoothing down his sides, dragging along his hips and lower to his thighs. The spy’s leg hair is soft to the touch, his skin pimpled with goose bumps.

 

He pushes his hands back up spy’s body, taking a different route, determined to feel all of him. He needs a map for his battle strategy. When his thumbs hook accidentally against the spy’s growing need, he sucks a breath in through his nose. He’s never thought much about the private parts of other men. He wasn’t one of the boys who paraded around with no towel to compare in the locker room. He’s never wanted to look at one or touch one or god forbid taste one, until this very moment. This one, soul-shaking, powerful moment.

 

Without hesitation he pushes his hand into the spy’s groin, covering his entire package with one great big hand, and squeezes.

 

Beneath him Spy yelps, surprised by the sudden warm pressure against him. He hadn't expected Soldier to go right for his cock. He thought he'd have to work him up to it, make him comfortable with being with another man before he would even consider touching him there.

 

But Soldier never ceases to surprise him. Of course he would go right for it, rather than take his time and work through whatever hang ups he might have. He's not that sort of guy. He doesn't avoid possible problems he faces them head on.

 

And Spy loves it. His initial yelp of surprise turns into a pleased sigh as he presses back against Soldier's impossibly large hand to encourage him to keep going.

 

"And I zought you didn't know what you were doing," he says with a laugh. "I'm glad. I won't 'ave to teach you everyzing."

 

Warground mapped. Strategy in place. Time to create some casualties.

 

Spy is very surprised when the soldier starts to strip him. It’s quite cold in the room, with the wind gusting in every few moments, but Jane gives off heat like a forest fire. He brands the spy with his hands as he strips off his undershirt. It was full of holes from his run-in with the sticky bombs anyway and wasn’t very good cover from the wind. When he gives a shiver, soldier has enough decency to grab the sheet and tent it over the two of them, trapping their body heat inside.

 

Completely naked within minutes, the spy feels suddenly very vulnerable next to the clothed soldier. He’s not wearing much, just his tank top and uniform slacks, but it’s more than the spy is wearing. He feels the solid weight of Jane’s muscles as well as the soft fibers of his cotton shirt and rough fabric of his trousers, all crowding him and rubbing him.

 

He kisses the spy again, swallowing down any protests of their mismatched nakedness, and grinds his hips forward. Spy whimpers into his mouth and the heat in the soldier’s body flows from his face down to his stomach and between his thighs.

 

Spy is shivering again but not from the cold anymore. Soldier is a quick learner and is already kissing like a champ now that he's into it and it’s quickly turning Spy to jelly beneath him. He can feel the strength of the man on top of him in the way he moves and the strong arms that bracket his body, keeping him pinned between Soldier's chest and the bed.

 

Spy closes his eyes and unlaces his fingers from where they met around Jane's neck. He runs his fingers down the man's arms before rucking up his shirt to explore his broad chest. He can feel the dips and curves of his muscular torso and oh how he must look without his shirt on. He's sure it’s a sight to behold.

 

The soldier pants open-mouthed into the spy’s neck when he feels his slim, icy fingers cut lines into his stomach and chest. He drags his shirt off over his head and lets it fall wherever the wind takes it.

 

It’s remarkable how silent the soldier has gotten, spy thinks. He expected he’d be barking out orders like always, maybe even calling him private or maggot or whatever other idioms he could come up with. Instead it seems, he’s lost the ability to speak altogether. Spy probably should have expected that. He should have known that making love and speaking at the same time would have been much too acrobatic for the soldier.

 

When soldier dips his head down to kiss the spy’s body, he arches off the bed. “You really aren’t wasting any time – oh!” the soldier ventures to take a nipple into his mouth, shutting him up completely.

 

Soldier swirls his tongue around the sensitive bud before biting down, just a little too hard but just enough to give a little edge of pain to the pleasure that's making Spy shiver happily beneath him.

 

Spy retaliates by wrapping his arms around Soldier and dragging his blunt nails down the other man's back, leaving his skin painted with light pink lines.

 

Soldier presses down on him in response and oh he can feel his cock, full and hard, pressing against his thigh through those damned pants he's still wearing. He's big, that much the Spy can tell already but he'd expected that. He wants to know more. He wants to feel it pressed against him, ready to take him like he's dreamed about for so long.

 

"Pants," Spy gasps. "Take zem off. Now. But do not stop doing zat wiz your mouth."

 

Soldier tries and fails to obey. The space is too cramped for him to do both. He accidentally elbows spy in the shoulder and crushes his leg hair while he shimmies about as gracefully as an epileptic python. It’s a good thing spy wasn’t expecting perfection from a man who confuses ancient Chinese history with the Bible more often than not because it’s clear he’s not going to get it. The soldier is certainly no lovemaking expert.

 

As soon as he's naked though it doesn't matter. He starts to lean back in to resume his earlier exploration but Spy stops him with a hand on his chest. He wants a moment to enjoy the view, now that his eyes have adjusted to the moonlight coming in through a gap in the clouds.

 

And what a view it is. He's gorgeous. His pecs are tight and solid, dusted with hair that only makes him look even more masculine. His stomach is tight with the hint of a six pack. It's not perfectly chiseled like it would be if he spent hours at the gym perfecting it but it's clear that he works out religiously. His body is hard and fit and broad and muscled and all over absolutely perfect. Spy himself isn't bad. But he's not the specimen of masculinity that Jane is.

 

When the moon is swallowed up by the clouds again and they’re left in darkness, the spy can’t waste any more time looking. “No more lollygagging,” soldier says gruffly. Now that his strategy is in place, he’s got to implement it. And he can’t do that if the spy treats him like a one-man peep show! There’s a battle to be won, dammit!

 

And he’s not going to win it sitting down. He’s got to buck up and take the bull by the horns! Or, in this case, by the dick. He wraps his hand around spy’s penis without thinking about it. It’s not a snake, it’s not gonna bite, he tells himself, and gives an experimental tug. Too hard, apparently, because the spy hisses and both his hands grab hold of Jane’s wrist.

 

“Gently,” he instructs breathlessly.

 

If at first you don’t succeed, jerk off your lover a little nicer. Soldier tries again, softer this time. It’s still rough, the only lubricant provided by the precome leaking out of spy’s cock. But it’s better than before.

 

Soldier's hands are firm and calloused. The roughness catches and rubs too hard against the sensitive skin of Spy's dick making him hiss and moan in intervals, the small spikes of pain keeping the pleasure sharp and clear rather than allowing him to drift off, awareness slipping away as bliss takes over. Spy never knows what to expect and it keeps him alert and fully in the moment.

 

Which is good. He wants to remember this. He doesn't know if this is only their first time or if it’s also their last but either way he wants to remember every second of it.

 

They aren't going to have sex. He knows that. Not here, not now. They have no lubricant or condoms. They can't do this without either. But having Soldier jerk him off is more than enough to satisfy him for a long, long time. And when he gets his chance to reciprocate, he'll make sure it's something that stays with Jane just as long.

 

So maybe the soldier doesn’t really know what he’s doing. “I don’t spend a lot of time masturbating!” he defends when the spy scolds him for squeezing too hard. He tries to listen to his coaching, and spits in his hand to make the glide a little easier for both of them.

 

“Zere, like zat,” spy tips his head back with a moan when the bigger man falls into the rhythm of it. He pulls at spy’s cock, and the noises he makes only encourages him. His strategy is working, the enemy’s defenses are crumbling!

 

What he doesn’t expect is for it to get him so hot. His stomach clenches and his own dick swells heavy and fat against the spy’s thigh, he can almost feel it puttering along with his heartbeat. His head droops and his hand moves faster, giving off loud, slick noises under the small tent of the sheet.

 

"Faster, oui, twist your wrist a little, not zat much - yes like zat," Spy demands, his voice husky and rough from arousal. He's so hot and it feels so good, better and better as Jane takes more of his instructions to the bank.

 

When the spy’s back arches off the bed with his climax, it’s loud and messy and satisfying. It leaves soldier reeling as much as it does spy. He wants to see the spy’s face, screwed up in pleasure. He feels spy’s toes curl on the back of his calves, he can smell the cigarettes on his breath and taste the sweat on his shoulder.

 

His free hand grapples with the spy’s arched hip as he jerks him through his orgasm, the wet droplets making his hand move even more quickly and smoothly. He may not be any lovemaking expert, but he brought spy to this. He dragged him down from his carefully groomed air, dragged him down to hell with only his hand. Writhing on the bed, panting and calling out “Jane!” like the word will save his life, he’s nothing like the collected spy the soldier knows.

 

When his muscles give out and he sags under the soldier, boneless, Jane releases his cock. Casualty of war count: 1

Spy lays there, panting, his heart pounding so hard against his ribs he's sure Jane can hear it. His body feels warm and heavy, satisfied in a way he hasn't been since he started fantasizing about the man on top of him.

 

He comes back to himself and becomes aware of the hard length still pressing against his thigh. How selfish of him, to lie here reveling in his own pleasure without thinking of his lover.

 

"Sit up," he orders, pushing on Soldier's chest. "It is my turn to take care of you."

 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” soldier says feely as he rolls over on the bed so the spy can straddle his waist. He’s just saying it on reflex now, because at this point, he’d probably do anything the spy told him to do. He grunts when spy sits astride his thighs and his softening, damp cock presses up against his own.

 

Capturing spy’s hips in his hands, he grinds up against him with another, louder grunt, the veins of his neck sticking out in ardor as he throws his head back.

 

Spy allows it for a moment before pulling free of Soldier's grasp. The bigger man grunts in protest but Spy just laughs it off before bending forward to kiss his way down the man's chest until his head is hovering a few inches above his groin.

 

"Someday, when we are more prepared," he says, dipping his head to kiss Jane's thighs beside his achingly hard cock. "I will let you open me up and take me. I will let you bend me over and fill me wiz your cock. Or I will ride you so 'ard when you come you will see stars."

 

He leans up from Jane's thighs to kiss the leaking head of his cock. Licking his lips he smiles, his voice clouded with lust and need. "But not today. Today my dear soldier I want to taste you." He doesn't wait for a reply before opening his lips, pulling them down over his teeth, and sinking down taking Jane's cock as far into his mouth as he possibly can.

 

Soldier’s eyes almost fall right out of his head they widen so far. His mouth drops open and his hips jerk up without repose. One hand flies to the long, thick curls atop spy’s head, the other cupping his cheek.

 

“Wow! Okay! Man down!” he shouts, his toes curling so hard a few of the knuckles pop.

 

Spy would laugh but it would ruin the moment. He settles for humming a little to show his approval. The vibrations the sound causes deep in his throat travel up Soldier's cock and he jerks again, shoving his dick even farther into Spy's mouth.

 

It's a good thing he learned to control his gag reflex long ago when he was training. Then it had been in case he needed to swallow papers with sensitive information on them or needed to hide jewels or money attached to a string tied around his tooth. He had never thought he would be using those skills like this.

 

“You’re a gift to America, son,” the soldier grunts. “You’re a – a treasure- holy moly! Mary mother of god where did you learn - ”

 

He’s only quiet, apparently, when he’s the one doling out pleasure. When bliss is jackknifing down his legs and up his spine, tightening his balls and making his whole pelvis thrum with energy, he’s a livewire.

 

Both hands cup the back of the spy’s head and he continues to babble, claiming that spy should write a book on how to do this stuff, accidentally calling it a ‘suck job’ and apologizing for ever calling spy useless.

 

Spy sets up a rhythm, alternating bobbing up and down with stopping to swirl his tongue around the head and plunging down to hollow his cheeks and suck hard when Soldier bumps against the back of his throat. There's no set pattern so Soldier can't predict what he's going to do next.

 

He ignores most of what Soldier says, all the mindless praise blending together after a while. But then he hears something that cuts through the rest and makes him pause.

 

Spy. Soldier keeps calling him Spy.

 

The frenchman's jaw goes slack as he pulls off Jane's cock, eyebrows raised. "Zere is nozing less sexy zen being called by my work title in bed."

 

“What?” Soldier lifts his head after the words cut through the fog in his brain, but he can’t see him in the darkness. “Well that’s all I got, pal, cause spies don’t share their names!”

 

"My name is Marion. Call me zat," Spy says, rolling his eyes. "And try to pronounce it properly."

 

Spiraling under the realization that the spy has not only revealed his face but his name to soldier in less than an hour, he blanches. He now holds this spy’s entire identity, maybe soldier isn’t such a bad spy after all! This is the kind of information that spy has on others so he can blackmail anyone he wants. This is the kind of espionage work that spies do! Granted, spy gave him both pieces of information willingly because he trusts soldier not to betray him but –

 

“Marion?” he says suddenly. “That’s a woman’s name!”

 

Spy, about to return to his previous task, pauses, his mouth hanging open over Jane's cock. Slowly he lifts his head to look at him in the very dim starlight, one eybrow cocked in incredulity.

 

"Your name is Jane.”

 

Soldier doesn’t seem to have a retort for that. It helps that spy – Marion? – seals his mouth over his cock again at that moment. His words come out as nothing but a shout, more misplaced praise and confused sentences drowned in lust.

 

The base of his spine feels tight, the skin on his legs feels too warm, and it’s getting progressively harder to breathe. He grabs the spy by the hair again and fucks his throat. The slight rasp of stubble against his thighs makes his skin feel alive, if a little itchy. It will leave a burn that he’ll feel tomorrow while he’s running in the field. Hopefully not towards any more sticky bombs.

 

Spy can tell when Soldier is getting close. His voice gets louder and rougher and his muscles clench and unclench erratically. He tugs at Marion's hair and his thighs quiver under the frenchman's grip.

 

He teases him, takes time to tease the sensitive head and veins with his tongue before sealing his lips just beneath the glans and sucking hard for only a moment just to hear the other man curse when he stops.

 

But Marion isn't a cruel lover. He knows what Jane needs now. So he slides back down, taking the Soldier's cock fully into his mouth before releasing his grip on the man's hips, allowing him to thrust again to his heart's content.

 

What he lacks in finesse he makes up for with brute strength. The spy hasn’t felt quite so used in some time. He relaxes his throat because if he didn’t he might pull a throat muscle. He doesn’t know if that’s possible, but if it was, he would under Jane’s assault. He takes quick, short, lung-scalding breaths through his nose, moaning like a hired whore.

 

He’s close, closer, closer with every thrust, soldier throws his head back and bellows like a bull. Tighter, tighter, his balls draw up and his stomach clenches, he remembers this kind of pleasure, he knows this. Hotter, wetter, faster, he gasps open-mouthed. People can probably hear him in the rooms nearby, but every man here knows that once in a while you have to let off a little steam. Even their esteemed general.

 

When he comes, Jane thinks he hears a chorus of angels open up in the heavens and rain their holy light down on him.

 

When he comes, Marion hears Jane shout “God bless America.”

 

Casualties of war count: 2

 

Marion swallows until he's sure Jane is finished. He pulls back carefully, letting the other man fall from his lips with a wet 'plop' and wipes away what he didn't manage to swallow as it drips down his chin.

 

Smiling, he crawls back up the bed to lay down beside the winded Soldier, his head propped up on one hand so he can watch him in his post orgasmic haze.

 

They lay in silence for a while. The rain slowed outside to a drizzle, the wind isn’t galing through the frame. They emerge from the sheet feeling too warm for it anyway, and the spy settles his head over the soldier’s bicep.

 

The silence feels too thick after a short while and, not sure what else to do, Jane says breathlessly, “Good job.”

 

"Oh mon dieu," Spy says before being overcome by laughter. Leave it to Jane to be so awkward after a blow job. Only he would think 'good job' is the best thing to say. "You too," Marion says when he catches his breath. "You did very good. Next time zough I will show you just how good it can be. If zere is a next time?"

 

“Next time, obviously!” soldier pushes up on his elbows. “It’s another training exercise! I won’t fail learning how to be a better lover, I won’t fail this one. I’ll be the best damn lover America has ever seen!”

 

"I wouldn't doubt it," Spy sneers. "You are being trained by a Frenchman after all. No American can compete wiz zat."

 

“The French are weak! The French are nothing!”

 

“Ze French are superior.”

 

“They surrendered to the Nazis!”

 

They’re not exactly a hallmark couple. The next day soldier is just as obnoxious and bearlike as before, and spy still wants to strangle him over the breakfast table. The spy is just as much of a sly, spooky greaseball. They don’t change each other. They don’t fix each other.

 

The only thing that changes is soldier’s room. He moves it closer to spy’s. Makes it easier to sneak back and forth because Jane always, _always_ forgets the lube.


End file.
